


He is Not a Soldier

by GwaithGweneth



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Centurion!Rory, F/M, Family, Fatherhood, Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwaithGweneth/pseuds/GwaithGweneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory is not a soldier. He doesn't know what he is. Warning for discussion of PTSD.<br/>Set (and written) before Angels of Manhattan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He is Not a Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Again, warning for discussion of PTSD. I wrote this fic before Angels of Manhattan, although it's still pretty much canon-compliant. Comments are like chocolate, and concrit is like Godiva!

He is not a soldier, he tells himself. He whispers it at night as he lies awake, Amy's chest moving softly against him, the streetlights shining dimly through the window. He speaks it like a mantra as he thrusts his sword through the air in the woods four blocks from their house, repeating again and again the exercises false generals never drilled into his brain. He screams it at the voices which sound like wind, standing alone on the cliffs in the dusky damp summer morning, panting after his run, sweating—not from the heat, the world not yet warmed by the sun, nor from exertion, fit and toned as he is from his daily exercises, but sweating still from the night, from the heat of the fires that burn in his dreams, the fighting and screaming and dark, crushing, boiling aloneness that woke him, shaking, from his slumber.

He is a nurse, he tells himself. He murmurs it as he walks to work, half dazed, half numb—he will never be a doctor now; he has met doctors and knows they do not care. He says it, repeats it as he runs, hardly feeling his limbs, his feet as they pound on the ground. He does not scream it, cannot bring himself to admit the desperation that he feels, the need for it to be the truth, for him to be a nurse, and not a soldier.

He is not a soldier, he tells himself. He is a nurse.

He cares for a man back two months from the wars, feels his breath hitch when he sees the man's scar. Asks someone to cover for him—who he doesn't know, it doesn't matter, nothing matters—and they nod. He walks—nearly trips and falls, the world is grey and foggy and he cannot see or breathe and does not care, only knows he needs escape—to the stairwell, abandoned as always. Sinks down, buries his head in his hands. He fumbles for his badge, traces his birth date. His hand goes to his side, feels for the hole, the defect in the plastic where raiders shot him, then to his back, feels for the warping that came when he was caught too close to the heat.

The skin is smooth—not warped, nor broken—but he can feel the little bumps and hairs which mean that it is skin, not plastic.

He sighs, and pounds his hand against the wall.

He is not a soldier, he tells himself.

Every day he exercises. Runs through drills and routines, practices with sword and gun. So many years with a gun for his hand, he never wants to hold one again—but he has tried going the day without practicing, tried going two, could never last.

He wakes in the night in a cold sweat, screaming, jumps and ducks and breaks at sounds like drums or metal clashing, sees whole battles in his mind and lives them twice. He builds a door inside his mind and locks it, and shuts it tight and bars it, and seals the cracks with clay and stones and wet cement, but the fire burns the walls away and the swords plunge through the wood. He is a nurse (he tells himself) and knows these symptoms, learned these symptoms, has seen these symptoms—not just here but a thousand times a thousand years ago. He can give them many names, need only choose a time, knows his commander would call him a coward if he let these symptoms show—knows he has no commander, he is not a soldier, knows the commander who never existed is an ignorant product of his times.

The battles which he sees are not real, cannot be, because he was not there, he never fought them—but he can see the blood, smell it, hear the shouting and the howling and the crashing, hear the din like demons trying desperately to beat their way through the gates of hell, to escape to those planes they cannot live on—to turn to dust in sunlight would be better than the burning fires of their home. He had a friend, he remembers—but of course, the friend was never real, less real than him or the red-headed dream girl who finally came for him (Amy, his Amy, locked up in the Doctor's prison)—a friend who prayed to his gods to take him like a warrior in battle. He would not kill himself, he said, he was no coward (but too afraid to plunge the sword into his breast)—but could no longer stand the burning of his metal on their victims' skin. He watched one day (the sight that never graced his eyes), a moment's breath from battle, and saw his friend standing still as stone in the battlefield. A man thrust a weapon into his friend's chest; his friend made no move to back away. He sank to his knees and smiled tightly, and Rory almost ran to him—but turned instead, and fought, lest he be felled himself.

Except he didn't.

He is not a soldier, he tells himself. The battles were not real.

The battles were not real—he knows it, and repeats it, even as he lifts his sword once more. Even as the Doctor returns and he fights, fights, fights, and runs, runs, runs.

Only the guilty run.

He is not a soldier, he tells himself, he killed no men and broke no families. It was all a nightmare in the dark, which will wash away in the warm warm light of Amy's bright bright face—but the Doctor comes for him, for them, and makes him fight, makes him run. The Doctor makes him a raise up his arms again, and more than that, worse than that, the Doctor makes him like it. Need it. Makes him want to fight, makes him swear on his sword and the names of his gods that he will be a soldier if he has to, that he will save his wife and save his child and save their world. He wants to fight, must fight, and must go with Amy wherever she goes because that is a promise he made long ago and cannot, will not ever break.

So he takes his sword and his armor and his gun, and he goes with his wife in the old blue box. He goes, and goes, and goes, every time, and knows it cannot change while his family is in danger. Wonders if his family would be in danger if they did not go. Wonders, too, if his family wants to be out of danger.

He does not think they do.

So he takes his sword and his armor and his gun, like extensions of his arm, like they were so long ago, and he rides out—in a box, now, and not on a horse. And he closes his eyes while he fights, and tries to remember who he is.

He is not a soldier, he tells himself, eyes closed, the clang of his sword in his ears. Then he cleaves a man in two and finds his voice is lost.

He keeps his sword held high and charges on. His family is not safe. Not yet.

He is a nurse, he tells himself, as he continues. Breathes the words beneath his breath as he fights and fights and fights.

He is a nurse, he tells himself, as he blows up ships and cybermen.

He is a nurse, he tells himself, as he aims his gun and pulls back his sword.

He is a nurse, he tells himself, and always will be. He says it, loud and sharp, and the man in front of him is startled. The mask the man has put up slips, just enough to show—yes. His left leg is injured, an old war injury most likely, just below the knee.

He is a nurse, he tells himself, kicking the man where he knows he is already weak.

The words stick in his throat.

He is a nurse, he whispers, as he runs through corridors after his family—but he cannot make himself believe it.

He tells himself every day, and every day the words become more false and burn more in his throat. One day they are in a great battle, and he hears Amy cry out. She is in danger, and he raises his sword. He turns his head and sees Melody, her hands held high, guns aimed with deadly form. He raises his gun and opens his mouth to remind himself once more of who he is.

He is Theirs, he tells himself, and knows, quite suddenly, that it is true. He is Amy's husband and Melody's father, he tells himself. He is a nurse and he is a soldier, because they need those things and he is theirs. He is a father and he is a husband, he is a best friend and he is a travelling companion.

He is Theirs, he tells himself, and screams it at the top of his lungs.

He is Rory Pond.


End file.
